Word: Xyst

 

xyst

[ zist ]

noun

1. (in ancient Greek and Roman architecture) a covered portico, as a promenade.

2. (in an ancient Roman villa) a garden walk planted with trees.

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               Sam leaned against a tree and looked down the promenade. It was beautiful place. The sun shone on the wide, neatly cobbled path. Well kept trees, shrubs and other plants lined the stree, giving the place a cheerful, inviting atmosphere. People walked along the path, each living their lives and going about their business. Sam hated it.

               There were too many people for one. He had no idea what any of their intents were. Most of them were probably locals or tourists, but that did not mean all of them were. There were too many to keep track of, and it would be all too easy for someone to get the drop on him. Plus, the plants that were so popular represented a danger to him. They would offer precious little cover should something happen, while also providing ample concealment for anyone that might have unpleasant intentions.

               The place may as well have been a death trap for people like him. If there was any other option, he would have taken it. His only solace was, ironically, the number of people around. While they made identifying potential threats nearly impossible, they also meant that any aggressors could not move freely. Not if they wanted to remain under cover, at any rate. He would have to take a chance.

               With a deep breath to steel his nerves, he took a step away from the tree and out onto the promenade. After a few steps he was not dead, so that was a plus. In Sam’s line of work, every moment you were alive was a good one. He kept walking, eyes dating from side to side. It was not ideal, but with all the people around he would not be able to effectively hear anyone approaching, so that was all he had left.

               He fought the urge to move quickly. That would just draw unnecessary attention, which was something he could do without. So he kept his pace casual. Even the way he held himself made him just another face in the crowd. It would not help against someone observant enough, but it would let him avoid a less wary hunter. It was probably the best defense he could have.

               He made it passed the halfway point of the promenade, but he did not lower his guard. He could not afford to do that until he was in a safe haven. But at least in the city proper there were more hiding places he could use. He kept his pace even. Nobody even looked at him for more than a second or two. Then he froze.

               While he was so focused on what was in front of him, he had slipped up. He felt something piercing his back. A small, thin something. A needle of some kind. His eyes widened.

               “Sorry about this.” Came a gentle, quiet female voice from behind. “It’s nothing personal though. You know how it is. Got to pay the bills and all that. Don’t worry, you won’t die right away. I’d say you have about half an hour to get someplace nice and private before that lovely little organic needle dissolves and you start bleeding. Maybe you’ll get to a doctor in time. Maybe you won’t. Good luck, Sam.”

               The woman passed by him. She was a moderately pretty woman, dressed in clothes that could have come from anywhere. Just another face in the crowd. Sam could appreciate that. If he survived, maybe he would even see her again. Of course if he did, he would have to try and kill her, but that was the world he lived in. But, before he could do that, he had to deal with his needle problem. He headed off into the city, looking for a place to get his wounds treated. He had a lot to look forward to now.

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Not sure if the ending is any good on this one. But I'm tired, so that's what you're getting. Maybe someday it'll be improved, but that's not too likely.

Word: Jornada

jornada

[ hawr-nah-duh; Spanish hawr-nah-thah ]

 

noun, plural jor·na·das [hawr-nah-duhz; Spanish hawr-nah-thahs]. Southwestern U.S.

a full day's travel across a desert without a stop for taking on water.

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               The sun beat down mercilessly. The heat distorted the air, and the desert sky did not give even a single cloud to offer any relief. The members of the caravan trudged through the sand, sweat pouring off them. Most of their vehicles had run out of gas or broke down days ago, leaving them with nothing but their feet to see them over the endless dunes.

               “We should’ve stopped for water.” One of the men said. “Why didn’t we stop for water?”

               Another spoke up in a voice made raspy due to lack of hydration. “Boss said we had enough. Said we could last another day to the next oasis. Probably was right before the trucks broke.”

               They had been walking the entire day, and there were still hours left to go before nightfall. Many of them were already prepared to have their bodies become food for whatever animals lived in the desert. Others were looking out for any source of water they might see, even just the right kind of cactus.

               “Idiot’s killed us all.” A man said, eyeing the caravan leader. “Damn fool didn’t listen, and now we’re all dead.”

               “I say we kill him before the desert does.” Another said. The man had his hand on his gun, although he kept it holstered. “Won’t save us, but damn will it feel good.”

               Several of the men muttered their agreement. Others gave their dissent. The man was still their employer, for whatever that was worth out there on the sand. Plus, he swore he knew where the next resting place was. A place where they could get as much water as they needed. Of course, he was not telling anyone else. Probably for his own preservation.

               “How can he even tell where we’re going?” Another man asked. “He just looks at the sky, then at some of those tools of his. Not a phone, not a compass, not even a damn map. There’s no way he knows where we’re going. And even if he did, it was distant enough that it’d take most of the day in trucks. We’ll never make it on foot.”

               The words rang true. They all knew it. The heat, the lack of water. Even the sand itself. Any one of those would spell death, and they dealt with all of them, and more. And still their so-called leader kept them moving towards a destination they all knew was out there somewhere, but did not know where. It divided the men. Half wanted to mutiny right then and there. Others wanted to wait until they reached safe haven, if they could, before slitting his throat.

               The leader paused and looked at his various navigation tools, seemingly oblivious to his men’s intentions. And all the while, they muttered and cursed his name. But, for now they needed him. Needed him to make guide them on their endless journey over sand and through blistering heat. The only thing that kept them going was the promise of his blood whetting the ground. And they would see it done, whether the rest of them survived or not.

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Three men are about to cross a desert, and each agrees to bring one thing to help them through. The first man brings a cart loaded with enough food to see them through. The second comes with barrel upon barrel of water. The third though, comes with a car door strapped to his arm.

This man looks at what the other two have brought and scoffed. The other two were confused, both by his choice and how he treated theirs. When asked about it, the third man answered:

"You two aren't thinking. Food? Feh. Water? Bah. Anyone can bring those. But me? I know what's going on. You see, it gets hot in the desert. Really hot. So, if I get too hot, I can just roll down the window."

...

...

I-I'm terribly sorry for that. I'll just be going now.

Word: Mise en Scene

mise en scène

[ mee zahn -sen ]

 

noun French.

1) the process of setting a stage, with regard to placement of actors, scenery, properties, etc.

2) the stage setting or scenery of a play.

3) surroundings; environment.

  **********************

               “What did you just say?” Henry said. His voice boomed outward, filling the room.

               “You heard me.” Terry replied. His voice was quieter, but sharper, cutting through the air like a knife. “She never loved you. That’s why she came crawling to me last night.”

               Henry took three steps forward. “You. If you keep spreading lies I’ll—”

               “Stop, stop, stop.” Both Henry and Terry’s shoulders slumped.

               “What now?” Henry said. “I did everything right. I used the right volume, the right words, the right look.”

               Kevin stormed onto the stage. He made a beeline right for Henry, stopping far too close for his comfort. “You’re supposed to stand here!” He said, pointing to a place a few inches in front of Henry.

               Henry looked at the spot. Then at his feet. “You’re kidding right?”

               “I am deadly serious.”

               “That’s like, two inches. Nobody in the audience is going to notice two inches if I’m not exactly in the right spot.”

               “Oh, they’ll notice. The entire scene will be wrong if you two aren’t in the exact right spot. Everything will fall apart. Everything is hinged on you being right there. The lights, the sound, the set. Everything. It all comes together into one harmonious whole. One that falls apart if you two are even an inch off your mark.”

               “That doesn’t make any sense.”

               “Yeah, I gotta agree with that.” Terry said. “I mean, what about the audience members to the far sides of the stage? They’ll be seeing things a lot differently than the ones in the center. Will everything come together the same way for them?”

               Kevin fumbled over his words for a moment. “Of…of course it will! I made absolutely sure of it!” It was obvious he had done no such thing. The two actors looked at each other with knowing looks. “Look, just…just trust me, okay? I have everything planned out. A grand vision of the entirety of the stage working in perfect harmony. The ultimate display of flawless mise en scene.”

               “Do you even know what that means?” Henry asked.

               “Of course I know!” Kevin spat. “It means you have to stand in the exact right spot or everything falls apart. That’s what it means.”

               “Look, can we just get back to rehearsal?” Terry asked. “We’ve got, like, five more scenes of just the two of us, and I’d like to finish up while it’s still kind of light out.”

               “Yes, fine. Get back to it. But this time, stand in the right place, damn it!” Kevin stomped off stage, only slightly less irate than when he came on.

               The two actors rolled their eyes in near perfect synchronization. They both knew it would not be that easy, not with this director. But, the show must go on. Even if that show was just a rehearsal for the actual show. They got into position for the start of the scene, making very sure they were in the exact right spot. And then, they started to act.   

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 I wonder how many amateur directors out there are like this. I'm not an actor, so I wouldn't know. Maybe someone more familiar with the stage can shed some light on the subject?